DAY 1: DENIAL.  
I am not sick.  I am not sick.  I wonder if my throat is scratchy.  I declare that it must be allergies.  I wonder why I am feeling so tired.  It must be the brutal late nights that we Bolles students know so well.  Who among us isn’t tired? I am not sick.  I am not sick.  I am not sick.  

DAY 2: PANIC.
Three bottles of zinc, two packets of vitamin C, orange juice, Tylenol Cold, and soup.  At Winn Dixie the cashier looks at me in a panic and asks, “Are you sick or something?” She stares at the money in my outstretched hand and then delicately takes it between her thumb and index finger, with her pinky raised.  She drops the change into my outstretched hand like a metallic waterfall.  “You look awful,” she chides.  “Really terrible.” I sneeze on her.

NIGHT 2: HOMEWORK.
Chapter 8 of “The Death of Ivan Ilyich.” The words are swimming on the page.  Why are the words swimming on the page? My father passes my room and says hi.  I groan something like “Bleh.”  My father asks how my day was.  I attempt to comprehend the question and then give up.  This is like Advanced Placement Conversation.  My father notes the Tylenol Cold on my dresser and asks, “Are you sick or something?”   My father reads the back of the Tylenol Cold bottle and says, “This stuff will knock you out.  You must be getting really tired, or at least loopy.”  I assure him that I am fine and return to my book.

Chapter 8 begins with Ivan Ilyich asking, “Are you sick or something?” I glare at the page.  “Shut up, Ivan.  Just say what Tolstoy told you to say.”  Ivan backs up with his hands in the air.  “Dude, I don’t want to get sick.  It’s the “Death of Ivan Ilyich”, not the “Flu of Ivan Ilyich.”  Can’t you work on chem or something?”  I decide that conversing with a nineteenth century Russian is probably a sign that I am indeed getting loopy from the Tylenol.  I go to sleep.  I dream that the bell just rang but I am lost and I can’t find my class.

DAY 3: THE WATER GETS HIGHER.
This is when you know you’re sick: you look at the Bolles stairwells and decide you’d rather take five finals than ascend them. Honestly, can’t Bolles build a helipad? Is it too much to expect to be choppered to math?  I collapse into my seat.  The teacher asks, “Everyone clear on what we just went over?”  Wait, when did class start?

At Bolles, it’s sink or swim. As soon as you turn in an assignment, it’s time to start the next one.  Miss one class, and you’ve missed test prep, or homework review, or quiz corrections.  No one can afford to be sick.  I cough.  I do not cough delicately, or politely, or like a debutante clearing her throat.  I sound like an outraged horse, or a hysterical seal.  The class stares at me. I look around as if to say, “Who in the world made that disgusting noise?”

We have a pop quiz.  Question 1: Thomas Jefferson glares up at me and asks, “Are you sick or something?”  I can’t remember the answers to any of these questions.  I am not yet sinking, but I am definitely submerged.
DAY 3, CONT’D: I AM AN ISLAND.
People regard me with increased horror as the day progresses.  They each ask, “Are you sick or something?” before inching away.  What is it with that question?  Do I approach random individuals and demand a status update as to their overall wellbeing?  No, I do not. By the day’s end it is official: no one wants to breathe the same air as me.  I am contagious, I am contaminated, I am radioactive.  I am the personification of makeup tests, subpar grades due to fuzzy thinking, and pages of missed notes.  I sneeze, and even the elementary school kids flee.  I am not a monster.  

DAYS 4 & 5: THE POINT OF NO RETURN: THE FEVER.
Is 99 a fever? Depends who you ask.  I mean, we’re talking about a .4 increase on the thermometer.  It’s totally possible to pretend it’s not there.  It’s like the fever is a guest at a party who you don’t want to talk to, so you pretend you don’t see it.  “Isn’t that fever over there waving at you?”  “Where? I don’t see anything.  Let’s go before he starts telling us about how hot he is.”  Regardless, the fever is when I decide to stay home.  First of all, it’s the right thing to do.  I don’t want to get anyone else sick.  Second of all, I feel awful.  But even through the haze of illness, I worry over burden of missed classes.  I am missing a chem lab, and I can’t complete the lab unless I have the data from the activity.  Can I use someone else’s data? Is that plagiarism? Or what if their data is incorrect?  Then my lab report will be wrong.  I have a geometry test tomorrow, which means today is a valuable review day.  I text a few friends and they generously send me their notes,  but there’s no way I have enough energy to do homework.  After two days of this I have hours of homework to catch up on, but I missed the lessons to teach me how to do it.  I fall asleep and dream that I am locked out of my locker and class starts in one minute.

DAY 6: THE RETURN.
I thought being sick was hard, but it turns out that the return to school is the most challenging day yet.  I don’t have one free minute.  I spend zero hour taking the tests I missed.  At activities,  I find teachers to discuss a plan to complete missed work.  Lunch is spent tracking down classmates to thank them for their notes and discuss how much they think I fell behind, and how much I should panic.  A girl next to me sniffles and I recoil, asking “Are you–” I gasp, hanging my head in shame.  What have I become?  “It’s just allergies,” she assures me.  Oh, this poor, naive child.  I look at her with a combination of pity and kindness.  Then, I scoot away and search for my hand sanitizer.  The last bell rings, and I struggle to balance all of my books.  Although I’ve made a schedule, I am still stressed because it’s a lot of missed work.  I will be up late.

NIGHT 6: CATCHING UP
By 11 pm I am tired, but I have a little left to do.  I know my teachers will be okay if I tell them I need one more day, but if I don’t catch up now, the mountain of make-up work will only grow larger.  Besides, I am sure I failed that pop quiz and I know I did poorly on a test, and the homework I turned in was far below my usual standards.  I wish I could get a do-over so that I could complete the work with a clear head, but I know that’s not fair.  Every student gets sick at one point or another, and we all have to finish the work we missed.  Still, I find myself drifting off before I finish.  I dream that I  am about to pass Mrs. Denmark in the hallway, but I realize I’m wearing a Justin Bieber t shirt and ripped jeans.  That’s when I know I’m dreaming and wake myself up.  I have another hour of work before I can go to sleep.  Soon it will be the weekend, when I can fully recover.  It’s true, I should probably stay home a few more days to fully heal.  But life moves fast at Bolles,  and you can’t expect to always get enough sleep.  That’s what summer vacation’s for, and June is only 84 days away.